


In Concert

by madrabbitgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, COVID-19 AU, Canon Divergent, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Covid Fic, Falling In Love, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Non canon compliant, Quarantine, Quarantine Romance, Sherlock's Violin, Street Performance, Threw canon out the window, quarantine fic, slash fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:07:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24954256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madrabbitgirl/pseuds/madrabbitgirl
Summary: * Inspired by a few true stories *John, saddened by the loss of a friend due to the pandemic and on a supplies run to the shops, stumbles across a charming street performance given by a talented violinist. When they finally meet, the intriguing stranger invades John's life via any socially responsible (and some probably not) ways.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- Not beta'd or Britpick'd, and for once this is a gift for me, not Mags. I work in a medical environment in the US so I've been under a lot of stress lately, so the medical aspects of this are based off what I've experienced and might not be true in other areas of the country or world.
> 
> \- Inspired by a true story I read on Tumblr that I thought was beautiful, I'll try to link at the end. But also a smidge inspired by the Bubble date people.

It was all John could do not to slam the top of his laptop down as the Zoom meeting ended. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, forcing back his emotions. A painful lump was building in his throat. God dammit, he was a soldier, but that didn’t make anything easier when it came to losing people.

After a few moments, he was able to open his eyes without tears stinging the back of them. He breathed out in a heavy huff and looked around, trying to ground himself with where he was. Boring bedsit with it’s bland walls and uncomfortable bed. He really should have tried harder to move out, to make a life here, but he never quite recovered from coming back. Then COVID-19 had swept across the globe and the part-time clinic job he’d taken had become a full-time nightmare. 

John didn’t really mind, actually. Of course he didn’t want patients to suffer, but the tension brought him back to his army days when he felt useful. He stood and began going through the motions of making tea, needing the comfort after the sad news he’d just received. He filled the electric kettle, setting it back in it’s cradle with a little too much force. As he waited for the water to boil, he opened his cupboards.

Out of tea.

Out of a lot of things, actually. He ran his hand over his face, wondering when he’d forgotten to get groceries. He hadn’t had too much free time but the clinic wasn’t comparable to the hospitals in terms of patient flow. For the most part, people were being diagnosed via telemedicine and being told to stay home. John closed the cupboard door and snapped off the power on the kettle. 

He was going to need to go grocery shopping. 

He gathered up his wallet, keys and his phone, ignoring the well-intentioned text that was waiting for him. He knew that it would be someone from the group wondering if he was okay. No, he was not okay, but talking about it wasn’t going to help him. John started down the stairs and headed out, mask in place. He slid in his earbuds, hoping that music would help soothe his troubled mind. 

As he walked along at a quick, angry place, his leg starting to twinge. He regretted not needing his cane, but he had to admit that since COVID it seemed the psychosomatic symptoms had, for the most part, resolved themselves. Now, as his brain tried to process the grief he felt, the pain seemed to be resurfacing. It was bizarre to see London so empty. The usually busy streets were absolutely deserted and it was eerie. He had a vague, looming feeling. Some of the kids that he encountered through the practice talked about the apocalypse or end of days, and honestly, he couldn’t fault them for it. That’s how it felt. 

Like the still and disturbing calm after a large explosion, just before the screaming started.

It made John shiver. 

As he rounded a corner, cutting through Baker Street towards the shops, he stilled as he came upon a strange grouping of people. At first he felt irritation blooming in his chest and across his cheeks as he slowed his pace, staring intently at the statuesque figures. None of the people were moving but all of them stood with their heads bowed as if in prayer. It wasn’t until he neared that he realized that they were adhering to social distancing guidelines, making his first instinct of anger fade. Embarrassment quickly replaced it as he wondered if he was interrupting some sort of memorial. This caused his heart to thud as he wondered if he’d be attending such a gathering soon. Funerals in the time of the Pandemic were going to be an odd, probably live-streamed situation. 

He ducked his chin and tried to find the best route around them. His shift caused one of his earbuds to fall out of his ear, dangling against his shirt by the wire (he was too anti-technology to bother with those modern bluetooth ones), and that’s when he first heard the powerful, seductive notes of the violin. 

John paused and took out his earphones and realized that the people on the street were attending a concert. Beautiful, strong classical music was streaming out of the upper window of one of the buildings, washing over them in a bewitching ocean of sound. He started to walk slowly towards the group, positioning himself across the street and far enough away that he could pause and listen. 

Whoever was playing was bloody good at it. John wasn’t much of a classical music person, but this was captivating. He stood there for a long time, listening to song after song, forgetting his anger and hurt for the moment. After a few more tunes, people started to disperse. It was a shame, he thought, staring up at the open window. He’d wanted to see the musician, to see if the person playing was as beautiful as their song, but all he could make out were tall, lean shadows. He noticed a small sign near the front door of the building and as soon as the crowd dispersed he walked over to see what it said.

He grinned. Apparently this was an every afternoon sort of performance. John’s eyes glanced back up at the window in time to see the curtains flutter, like someone had been watching him and moved away quickly. John nodded. He’d be back again tomorrow.

***

Every day, or as many days as John could manage due to his schedule, he found himself standing outside of the apartment building with the small group of people, listening to the violinist play. He didn’t speak to anyone. He wasn’t in the mood, after the long days at the office and the zoom meetings that were now sans one person, to be social. He merely leaned against one of the buildings and listened, just as they did.

He never saw the man that was playing. It was a man, he was sure, as he could sometimes see the tall, dark shape pacing around as he played, but he stayed far away from the windows. Sometimes, just as he had the first day, he saw the curtains move as though he were being watched before he limped off into the evening. 

Soon John even found himself eschewing the meetings if they happened to get scheduled during the mini concerts. It didn’t matter if he went anymore, anyway. He was sure Ella would be concerned if she heard him say so but he didn’t care. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

John had wandered closer than usual after the concert, looking at the paper near the door to see the next date and time. He glanced up at the man that stood in the doorway. 

He was beautiful.

Even with the mask that he was wearing, his overgrown dark curls and alabaster skin combined with piercing grey-green eyes were stunning. John was sure his mouth was just as perfect. His face shouldn’t have worked- his eyes were slightly too small, his cheekbones too high, but something about him -

John blinked back to himself, realizing he hadn’t answered the question. “I’m sorry?” 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man asked. He seemed to be smirking. And then he started speaking again, spilling out details about John that he couldn’t possibly know from his military service all the way down to the fact that John was mourning someone. 

“How- how could you possibly know that?” John asked, blinking rapidly to clear the shock from his brain. The man was definitely smirking at him. “I didn’t even speak to anyone here, you couldn’t have been told about me-”

“I didn’t need to be told, I observed,” the man drawled. He was definitely smirking. “Your leg is psychosomatic, you know.” 

“Ehm, yes, I’ve been told. Still acts up when I don’t want it to,” John replied, feeling the heat of an embarrassed blush spreading over his cheeks. The man continued to stare at him. 

“You won’t be back tomorrow. You work, at a job you don’t particularly care for although,” the man arched an eyebrow as he mysteriously saw something else on John that alerted him to more facts about John’s boring existence, “not as much as you did before the pandemic. Interesting. You enjoy danger. You must have been an excellent soldier.” 

“I might take a day off, you never know,” John replied. The man shook his head. 

“You’re not the type to shirk responsibilities,” he said. “I’ll see you on Thursday, then. That’s your pattern.” 

“I just might surprise you,” John said, but he was grinning. He could tell the other man was smiling, too. “I’m John, by the way. John Watson.” 

“I’ll see you Thursday, John,” the man said, turning to go back inside.

“Hang on, I don’t know your name,” John protested, wanting the prolong the moment just a little bit. The man turned back to give him a long glance. 

“The name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said with a wink before entering the building and shutting the door behind him. 

John grinned to himself, not noticing any pain in his leg as he started the walk home.

***

John did end up surprising Sherlock, but not in any positive way. Sadly, in the Wednesday night zoom meeting, another member had passed away, bringing to the front of John’s mind the sadness he felt at Bill’s absence. He didn’t go to the sidewalk concert on Thursday, or Friday. He didn’t want to stand there, listening to Sherlock’s soothing notes, wondering when it was going to be his turn.

He hadn’t wanted to be in the bloody group in the first place. Ella didn’t like how isolated he was and he refused to take up her suggestion of writing a blog about his experiences, so their compromise was attending the weekly support group meeting. Over time, he’d become friends with some of them, and suffering through the meetings hadn’t been so terrible after all. Then there was Bill. He’d been in Afghanistan at the same time as John and they’d bonded over their similar experiences. Soon, they’d been meeting up for regular drinks and a few other regular past times. He hadn’t been in love, but he’d been attached, and now Bill was gone. 

This week it had been Col. Moran. The old Colonel was in his late eighties and, despite being in a risk group from his age and other preexisting conditions, he’d continued to venture out on his own to pick up groceries and other necessities. When the group really started connecting to one another, John had taken up the habit of calling him sometimes to let the old man rattle on about back when he was a soldier. 

John didn’t know how he was going to handle just sitting back and watching an invisible enemy pick off his friends one by one. 

It took John an entire week to get a handle on his feelings and convince himself to go back to the street once more. He hadn’t been paying attention to the time, and as he was walking up to the little socially conscious group, it was already dissipating. He sighed. He walked closed to the building, his limp agitating him as it had through most of the week, to see if the sign said when the next show was going to be. 

“You’re late,” Sherlock said, his deep voice calling down from the window above. He was wearing a mask again and this time it was a dark floral baroque sort of pattern that reminded John of bad wallpaper. 

“Yes, I lost track of time,” John replied, looking up at the gorgeous creature who was leaning out of the window. “I like your mask.” 

He did, but only because it was incredibly ugly but somehow still managed to suit the man. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Mrs. Hudson has been quite busy,” Sherlock told him before adding, “My landlady.”

“Ah. I just keep getting them from work,” John said, motioning to his medical mask. He knew they weren’t supposed to be reused but he hadn’t expected to be leaving his house so often. Sherlock’s brows knit together before he called down again. 

“Hang on.” 

The man disappeared and left John standing on the street. He waited for a few minutes, wondering if he should leave or continue waiting, before Sherlock opened the front door, holding out a bag. “For personal use only, obviously. Can’t have you getting sick now, can we?” 

John took the bag before backing away again to make sure he maintained the six feet between them. Inside were a dozen or so colorful fabric masks, some of which were in the same fabric as Sherlock’s. John grinned. “Thank you. Can I give you some money for them?” 

“No!” Sherlock said adamantly. “She’ll make them regardless, if you start giving her money for them you’ll just encourage her. We’ve got dozens of them.” 

“Well, thanks,” John said, feeling equal parts delighted and awkward. He cleared his throat. “So, what started you playing for your neighbors?”

Sherlock leaned against the door, staring at John with that same intense gaze he’d had at their first meeting. “Dull. I’d much rather know about your dead friend.” 

John pressed his lips together, his own brow wrinkling in frustration as he tried to process the question. “I’m sorry?” 

“Your friend who died. The most recent one, but the first one as well. It’s interesting,” Sherlock told him. “You weren’t close with the most recent one, it was more of an acquaintance which brought up the memory of the first one. Were you sleeping together? Yes, I can see it in the way you just shifted your leg. Really, John, you should be better at hiding your emotions. You were a soldier, after all.” 

“Jesus,” John swore, letting out an uncomfortable huff. He barely resisted the urge to scrub his hand over his face. “Yes, I was sleeping with him.”

“You wish I’d offended you but secretly you’re impressed,” Sherlock said to him after an awkward moment of silence. “You should really fire your therapist, if she really thought a group would help someone with your temperament. Did you love him?” 

“No, we were just friends,” John replied. He quirked his brows up, hoping his expression conveyed irony as well as the bitterness in his tone. “Bill was in Afghanistan at the same time I was. He understood what I was going through and we shagged a few times, but I wasn’t his type. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“What’s your type?” Sherlock asked, tipping his head back, regarding John even more closely. 

John felt a blush creeping up on him and hoped his mask hid it from the seemingly psychic stranger. “You’ll just have to find out.” 

“Interesting.” Sherlock seemed to be considering the new information about John, staring at a random spot on the sidewalk. “You’ll be back tomorrow. You’ve been away for an entire week and you find my music soothing.” 

“I might surprise you,” John repeated, giving a half shrug. Sherlock nodded.

“You might. But you won’t,” he said confidently. He started to go inside.

“I could text you?” John said quickly and then inwardly cringed at how desperate it sounded. He barely knew this man. For all he knew, he was bothering him. “If I weren’t coming over, that is.” 

Sherlock paused, considering this idea. He turned to look at John, eyes roving from head to toe and back again, reading him like a book. “I suppose that couldn’t hurt.” 

They exchanged numbers and John smiled at him, although the only evidence of the gesture was the crinkling around his eyes above the mask. “Excellent. I’ll see you.” 

“You will,” Sherlock agreed before retreating into the house once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on [My Blog](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Not beta'd or Britpick'd, and for once this is a gift for me, not Mags. I work in a medical environment in the US so I've been under a lot of stress lately, so the medical aspects of this are based off what I've experienced and might not be true in other areas of the country or world.
> 
> \- Inspired by a true story I read on Tumblr that I thought was beautiful, I'll try to link at the end. But also a smidge inspired by the Bubble date people.

[[picture msg] What would cause this pattern of bruising? - SH]

John frowned down at the image attached to the text message, wondering why the violinist was texting him at all, much less pictures of a dead body. [Should I be concerned about the image content?]

[It’s for my Work. - SH]

John considered that for a moment. He’d already come to the conclusion that the man was teleworking or self-employed, given the fact that he had the time in his schedule to put on street concerts whenever he wished, but other than that John had no idea what he did or why he was texting photographs of a corpse to someone he’d only just met. John also had no clue as to what caused the kinky looking marks on the man in the photos. Mid-thirties, dark hair, solidly built but other than that the photos were abysmal. The bruising ran in crossing patterns over his back. They didn’t appear to be the cause of death, however, and John knew that if he gave that answer, it would probably be the end of the conversation. He decided to stall. 

[What sort of work involves dead bodies?]

There. Maybe that would get Sherlock talking about what he did for a living. It was certainly more entertaining than the charts that were going unfinished in front of him, or the half-eaten turkey sandwich that sat by his side. He only had a few more moments of free time before his next telehealth visit. This would be a nice way to pass the time, and if he didn’t get to Sherlock right away, well, then he’d have something to look forward to. 

[I’m a consulting detective. I’ve been asked to look at a few cold cases during the quarantine. -SH]

[[picture msg] Would the bruising indicate enough force to kill? -SH]

John’s eyes widened. It could have, perhaps, but he doubted it from the photographs. He’d never heard of a consulting detective, and it would be his luck to have made friends with an aspiring serial killer. [I’ve never heard of a consulting detective.]

[You are being impossibly obtuse. Are you this way often or are you particularly dull today? -SH]

John snorted. [Aren’t you sweet.]

[I never claimed to be sweet and that has no bearing on the case. -SH]

John’s lips tilted upwards. As he was alone in his office, he’d slipped the mask off and the air against his skin was nice. Was the violinist flirting with him? It seemed that way. [Looks intimately done. I’ve got patients. I’ll txt you ltr.]

[Appalling lack of grammar. -SH]

John laughed out loud before slipping his phone into his pocket. He clicked into the virtual waiting room, waiting for the patient to join him. If the morning was anything to go by, it was likely to be an older person who hadn’t the foggiest as to how to use apps or allow permissions for phones or laptops to records. Most of his appointments had been him coaching patients through the process. 

Imagine his surprise when a pale, curly-haired violinist popped up on the screen.

“How did you get in here?” John asked, trying to smother a laugh. “I’m waiting for a patient.” 

“I explained to your receptionist that I have a personal issue only Dr. Watson would be able to solve,” Sherlock told him. He was reclined on a leather sofa, head propped up on the arm. His dark hair was wild and frizzing around his face, as though he had been running his hands through it while he worked through the case he was trying to solve. He rolled his eyes at John. “She may think it’s an erectile dysfunction. Your patient was transferred to the other physician.” 

“You’re insane,” John laughed. Sherlock shrugged.

“You’ll have a more pleasant conversation with me than you would some old pensioner,” Sherlock told him. “Now, what was your opinion on the bruising patterns that I showed you? You were extremely vague, I can only assume to prolong the conversation.” 

“Good job,” John approved. In an attempt to look casual, he folded his hands on his desk, trying not to cringe when he forgot the sandwich at his elbow which ended up knocked into the bin.

“I hope you didn’t want to eat that,” Sherlock said. John grinned, hanging his head for a moment before looking back at Sherlock.

“I’ve seen that bruise pattern in more intimate situations,” John repeated, not knowing if he should elaborate more. Any normal human being would understand what he meant by that. 

“Yes, you said that before. However, these marks were made with neither a whip nor a crop,” Sherlock said. 

“Oh? Familiar with the marks a whip or a crop make?” John teased, leaning back in his chair. An uncomfortable expression crossed Sherlock’s face, causing John’s grin to widen. “You are!”

“Not for the reasons you assume. If I’m going to continue to speak with you regarding my work, I would prefer it if you kept your mind out of the proverbial gutter,” Sherlock said. He shifted, sitting up in the dim flat. The way the light was filtering in from the window illuminated only half of his face, leaving the rest in shadow. The wallpaper that John could see had the same hideous patterning that Sherlock’s landlady had been making masks of, something of a theme, he assumed. Leather creaked under that slim body as Sherlock settled into a new position. 

“Touchy,” John said. He pursed his lips. “I don’t think something that would leave those marks but not break the skin would be enough to be the cause of death. Unless the murderer was extremely good at what they were doing. Are there other possibilities?” 

“It was made to look like a stabbing, however we’ve determined the wound was post mortem,” Sherlock said. 

“We, as in the police?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“No, I’ve already facetimed a mortician I know,” Sherlock said. “You are determined to distract me from my work.” 

“No, I’m curious as to who told you that,” John told him. He shifted, tilting forward and folding his arms as he leaned on the desk. “What would make those marks in that sort of setting if not a whip or a riding crop?” 

Sherlock’s expression turned absolutely, beautifully devious. One corner of his mouth twitched, giving a knowing half smile. “Oh, be creative, Dr. Watson. I’m sure you’ve seen many, many things.” 

“That is a conversation for a time when you don’t want to be distracted from your work,” John pretended to scold. “Your appointment is almost over, Mr. Holmes, and we’re no closer to solving your murder or erectile disfunction.” 

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head. “You know that the appointment was a sham, Dr. Watson. I’m healthy and whole, I assure you, with all parts functioning as they should.” 

“Indeed, well, that’s good to hear,” John said, feeling slightly more warm than he had a few moments prior. “So one case solved then.” 

“I suppose,” Sherlock said. He tilted his head to the side. “Actually…” 

“Hmm?” John asked. 

“It’s occurred to me that I might have overlooked something. A contact I have in the industry,” Sherlock murmured, almost to himself, although it was clear that he was taking the time to at least explain it to John. He rolled his eyes. “That woman.” 

“What woman?” John asked, brows furrowing once more as he tried to follow the _consulting_ detective’s train of thought. His question went unanswered. Sherlock tapped out of the appointment quickly and with no goodbye, already chasing whatever clue he’d read in John’s flirtations. It left the doctor feeling hollow and unsatisfied. Sherlock was a contradiction. He flirted, but in a way that still seemed guarded and standoffish. John had been with enough people to know when someone was interested in him. Sherlock was definitely interested. Not that he could go about having one night stands with strangers during a pandemic. That would be hideously irresponsible. 

Did John always have to be so damn responsible?

He thought about that over the afternoon, in between his scheduled patients. Of course, the answer was yes, he had a responsibility as a health care provider to abide by the rules regarding the pandemic. He was already pushing his oath by continuing to attend the little street shows, however socially distanced they were. But life in a pandemic was full of grey areas and unknowns. 

He was still mulling over this concept as he entered his flat, ready for a shower and something to eat. A ping from his phone reminded him of the group meeting later in the evening, which he was already dreading and not entirely sure he was going to attend. He tossed the device towards his bed, leaving it to hit once and then bounce off while his back was turned. 

The scalding hot water of the shower helped to loosen the tension he carried in his shoulders. He braced his arm on the wall, leaning forward so his head was pillowed against it, relaxing into the spray and letting the water fall over him. He could so easily picture Sherlock, laying against the back of that leather couch, with his disorderly hair making him all the more appealing. He’d been able to see Sherlock’s mouth today and it was full and tempting. John sighed and stood up again. It was better not to think about it, really. This strange creature that played violin concerts and solved murders and seemed to read him like a children’s book. 

Life with such a person would probably never be boring, that was for sure. It wouldn’t be beige. It would be ugly wallpaper and bullet holes. It might even be dangerous. John’s brain (and, let’s be honest, several parts of his body) were attracted to that idea. Having a … friend like that. Perhaps not in the way that Bill had been his friend, but _something_.

Sighing, John rinsed and stepped out of the shower. He dried himself and then wrapped the dampened towel around his waist before stepping back into the main room to get some clean clothes, but paused when he noticed his phone on the floor with the notification light blinking. It buzzed in his hand as he picked it up and swiped it open. 

[Zoom? -SH]

John grinned and waited a minute to reply, but he was already opening his laptop. [That’s not actually a question.]

[If you want to hear how the case ended, you’ll zoom? - SH]

[And I wasn’t actually asking. - SH]

John’s smile grew the more messages he got. How Sherlock had managed to secure John’s email he didn’t really want to know, but there, waiting for him was an invitation to a zoom meeting between the two of them. The clicks of the mouse were too loud in the small room, but excitement was already blooming in his chest. 

Then he remembered his lack of clothing. 

“Bugger,” John swore, hurrying to his dresser to root for some pants at least, before Sherlock let him into the call. 

“Interesting choice of attire for a video call,” Sherlock’s voice drawled. “I hope you don’t speak to everyone in that way. You might get arrested for sex work.” 

“What?” John asked, tugging his underwear out of the drawer. He was about to say it was just a towel, perfectly decent coverings, but as he turned he felt a refreshingly chilly breeze on his lower half and looked down. The towel had fallen to the floor. Yelping, he leapt forward and turned the camera off on the chat, hearing Sherlock start to laugh. 

“That wasn’t on purpose,” John said, pulling his pants on, followed by soft pyjama bottoms and a tee shirt. Sherlock only laughed harder.

“I would hope not,” Sherlock said. “The wound on your shoulder is quite impressive.” 

“That’s what you were looking at?” John muttered. He sat down in front of his laptop and turned the camera back on. Those full lips were tilted up in a secretive smile, making nervousness flutter in John’s stomach. 

“It’s certainly one of your many interesting features,” Sherlock purred. Offscreen, he picked up a cigarette and took a drag. 

“You really shouldn’t smoke,” John told him. Sherlock smiled.

“Always a physician. I’m in quarantine, I should be allowed some vices to get me through,” Sherlock replied. John considered what that might mean.

“Do you have many vices?” 

“I think that would depend on who you asked,” Sherlock said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. He reminded John of a dragon, all long elegant lines and reptilian pale eyes. 

“Ah,” John replied. It was strange. Usually, he was confident with all sorts of people. In the army he’d had a rather vulgar nickname based on the fact that he’d had a bit of a romantic reputation (well, that was a kind word for it), but something about this man was different. Different from Bill, even. With Sherlock, even simple conversation felt like it had some kind of weight to it, a meaning that hadn’t been there before. Was he flirting? Was he simply trying to make a friend after being bored and quarantined with his old landlady? 

John’s stomach interrupted the awkward silence as he floundered with what to say to this brilliant, talented man. He grinned sheepishly. “I guess I should probably eat something. That sandwich was a long time ago.” 

“And you hardly ate any of it. Most of it ended up in the bin,” Sherlock reminded him. John nodded. 

“Beans it is, then,” John said, laughing when Sherlock appeared to grimace. “You would be a picky eater, wouldn’t you.” 

He picked up the laptop and padded over to the tiny kitchenette and propped Sherlock up on the worktop. He couldn’t remember a time when he had a real kitchen in his home, as he’d been in the army and then here, and he usually didn’t miss having the space but now that he was trying to squeeze a laptop in while he was cooking he realized he could do with a bit more room. Sherlock watched him the entire time, talking about the cold cases he’d been solving. It was a bit domestic, really, and it felt nice. With his beans smothering a perfectly toasted piece of bread, he juggled the laptop and the plate and went back to his bed. 

“Were you ever able to contact your BDSM expert?” he teased around a forkful of beans. He’d propped the laptop against a pillow to give Sherlock some height and he sat with his back against the wall, his legs crossed. 

“She’ll be in touch, she said,” Sherlock replied, smiling approvingly as John recalled the earlier conversation. “But the case is essentially solved, I merely need the proof.” 

“It’s amazing that you can do what you do even during quarantine,” John told him. Sherlock hummed, contemplating the idea of it. 

“Amazing. That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock said. John quirked an eyebrow at the man on the laptop.

“Oh yeah? What do they usually say?” 

“Piss off,” Sherlock chuckled. John grinned. God, Sherlock was like something out of a dream. Like John, he seemed to only have one lamp on, casting him in shadows and mystery, but his pale skin still stood out. John couldn’t make out too many details of the shirt that he was wearing except that it seemed to be a dark, rich purple and it was so perfectly snug it practically screamed sex. 

“Well, I think it’s brilliant. Probably a bit rude, but brilliant,” John said, allowing for the fact that Sherlock, even on their short acquaintance, seemed to lack tact when spouting his deductions and had probably been called rude on more than one occasion. Nothing about Sherlock’s face changed, but John had the feeling he was pleased at the compliment. 

They talked well into the night, until John was yawning and blinking heavily.

“You won’t be in the office tomorrow,” Sherlock told him. It was a statement of fact rather than a question. John nodded. 

“I’m not scheduled. If someone is sick, of course, I could be called in,” John said. He didn’t want to promise anything, not with the plague looming over London. Sherlock nodded, eyes going unfocused for a moment.

“You don’t want to promise you’ll be at Baker Street tomorrow in case you decide not to come,” Sherlock said. It was John’s turn to nod.

“But I probably will. I love hearing you play,” John told him, stifling another yawn. Sherlock’s expression went funny, and John couldn’t figure out what he said that pleased the detective so well. 

“Would you like me to play you to sleep?” Sherlock asked. It seemed as though he was just teasing, but there was also a real offer hidden in the tone. John smiled, considering it for just a moment.

“Maybe some other time. Just because it’s so late, I’d probably fall asleep before you even started. I want to be able to enjoy it,” John said, his voice going soft and gentle. 

“Well, then, sleep well, John,” Sherlock said, and he gave John a single nod before ending the meeting. John exhaled in a huff, not sure how to feel. Most of him felt elated and more than a little drunk on the experience, but there was another part of him that fretted this would all end in some kind of disaster.

What did he really have to lose, though?

He pondered that thought as he pushed himself to his feet, lumbering his sleep-heavy limbs into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He was definitely happy, he decided. He’d just sat up until the early hours of the morning video chatting with a beautiful genius about serial killers, the idiocy of the police and some of John’s time in the army (with another round of conversation regarding his scar and Sherlock’s fascination with it). Yes, despite the apprehension, John was feeling… tentatively happy. Much happier talking to Sherlock than the zoom group therap-

The group! 

It had slipped John’s mind entirely. He stepped out of the bathroom to search for his phone, fully expecting a few of them to have texted, at least, but he stopped cold.

There was a woman in his flat. She was dressed in all black, in heels, and wearing a plain black mask. She was holding a large tablet and on the screen was the face of a man, slightly balding, looking sour and displeased. From what John could see, he was dressed in a suit jacket, waistcoat, shirt and tie that all looked rather expensive and pressed. 

“Doctor Watson,” the man was saying. A thin smile pulled itself over his lips. “I’d like to speak to you about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “John couldn’t figure out what he said that pleased Sherlock so well” - He said love, FYI.
> 
> * I had two British people arguing over whether Brits actually eat beans and toast (which I, personally, find appalling because baked beans are nasty). An older friend of mine said they eat them all the time and she even had them for dinner last week, a younger friend of mine said that’s just pub food and he should’ve called the UK version of Doordash. Considering the age of John in the series and probably right now, I went with what my older friend said. (Fun Fact: She also cast me in my first Panto which was just this past Christmas.) So sorry if it’s cliche?
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on [My Blog](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	3. Chapter 3

The late hours took their toll on John and he overslept. He hadn’t noticed through his excitement the night before that he was exhausted. His bones ached with it, pulling him into a numb, coma-like slumber he couldn’t shake. Even when he woke, he stayed in bed, groggy and contemplative. His first thought upon opening his eyes was to call Sherlock but what would he even say? Was he overreacting? He lay staring at the ceiling, thinking over what had transpired the night before.

_“His nemesis,” the man had said. “You’re loyal awfully fast.”_

What kind of man had a nemesis?

_“I could offer you financial compensation for any information-” ___

__No._ _

__John wasn’t that type of person, and even if he was, he knew he’d never intentionally betray Sherlock like that. Even though they’d only just begun being acquainted, there was something special about the detective. Something that made John want to protect him. He rolled over to his side, bringing his knees up just a little, staring at the mobile phone sitting on his nightstand. It would be idiocy to call, wouldn’t it? He was going to the street performance this afternoon. He’d likely see him then. It could probably wait?_ _

__But was Sherlock the only one allowed to call? Could John reciprocate? That was the entire point of getting his number, after all. John went back and forth for a few minutes, but in the end, he pushed himself into a sitting position and reached for his phone. He deliberated for a minute before deciding to try a video call._ _

__“This is an extremely inopportune time,” Sherlock said. He was breathtaking, clad only in a crisp white bed sheet. His skin was so pale it blended into the fabric. Had his hair been white, he would have looked like a marble statue come to life. As it was, he still looked artfully disheveled._ _

__“I could call back?” John asked, biting his lip. He felt warm as he gazed at the smooth line of Sherlock’s throat, disappearing down into the folds of his sheet. “Something happened after our call yesterday. I just wanted to tell you about it.”_ _

__“Hmm, something interesting, I hope.” Sherlock’s voice was deep and rough, like he’d been sleeping, but John could see the sofa behind him so he wasn’t in his own bed. Or maybe he slept on the sofa? It wasn’t as though John knew his habits. The doctor’s imagination went wild with reasons Sherlock could be naked on his couch in the early morning._ _

__The sheet was slipping from his strong, slender shoulder._ _

__“I met someone. He said he was your nemesis,” John told him. Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted._ _

__“So nothing interesting, then,” Sherlock said, yanking his sheet back up. From the tautness of the fabric, it looked like it was caught on something. “Did he offer you money?”_ _

__John frowned. Sherlock didn’t seem particularly concerned that some man with secret minions had broken into John’s house to warn him off. “Erm, yes. Yeah, he did.”_ _

__“Did you take it?”_ _

__“Of course not!” John sputtered. The sheet was being tugged downward again, this time exposing even more of the smooth planes of Sherlock’s chest. His perfect face twisted up into a scowl as he continued to yank, shaking the phone he was holding. “I wouldn’t.”_ _

__“Next time you should. We could split it.”_ _

__“Do you need to go? I didn’t mean to intrude on something,” John said, an uncomfortable instinct telling him that it wasn’t a ‘what’ the sheet was caught on but more of a ‘who’ was tugging it down. With a final yank, the tug of war ended and the fabric freed itself from Sherlock’s body, leaving the shirtless man naked, or at least, naked from the waist up. He scowled._ _

__“Yes. I’ve got an annoying dog that needs to be put out,” Sherlock snapped, glaring off-camera. “I’ll speak with you later, John.”_ _

__John’s face fell and he felt his stomach drop. “Yeah, okay. See you later.”_ _

__Sherlock had already ended the call without any goodbyes. It left John wondering if he should even go to the little street show. In all of their conversation, they’d never discussed significant others except for any questions Sherlock had about Bill. The invasive warmth that Sherlock had radiated by infiltrating John’s life was gone, replaced by cool, calm indifference. A cold slap of water on a fevered face. Was he not interested in John? Was he embarrassed at whatever had been yanking his sheet off?_ _

__John would find out more if he went to the show instead of staying home. At the very least, even if they didn’t speak, he’d get a nice walk out of it and a bit of music._ _

__He decided to at least dress for the day while he dithered about the subject. Even his nicest jeans were older and faded, and his button-up shirt made him feel like a dad. Was it comfort, laziness or the lingering depression that had made him so… blah? Faded jeans, beige jumpers, plain walls. Who was this blank slate of a man? He pushed these irritating thoughts back as he pulled on clothes, knowing that even if he wanted to run out and replace his entire wardrobe, which he didn’t, they were in a pandemic and it wasn’t possible. Bill hadn’t minded John’s style but he hadn’t really cared what Bill liked or thought either way, especially as they never had their clothes on for long when they were together._ _

__John tinkered around his flat for a while. He made something for breakfast, although for the life of him he couldn’t remember what he’d eaten when he tried to recall it later. He tinkered around his flat for a while, making sure his bed was made with hospital corners and the rigid order ingrained in him from his military time, washing dishes, wiping down surfaces around the bathroom and kitchenette. He picked up a notepad and a few pens and went to place them in his desk drawer. His old gun lay there, tucked safely away. Only just a few weeks ago he’d been so close to using it on himself, and now-_ _

__Best to keep that sort of thinking to oneself. He shut the drawer._ _

__Then he opened it again._ _

__He took the little notebook out. It was a small moleskine journal, the kind that had nice paper and was good for taking notes. He’d purchased it after his first therapy session, back when he’d still been considering taking Ella’s advice on blogging or journaling, but there was really nothing to say. Every once in a while he’d take it out and stare at it for a few frustrating moments before putting it back in the drawer, which is how it ended up on the desk in the first place. He opened to the first page, blank, and started to write._ _

_I met someone…_

____

***

Music was already pouring when John arrived, a little flushed and breathless from his brisk stroll over. As the weeks progressed from that first small gathering, the crowd had tapered off, so it was easier to find a socially appropriate spot to stand that was closer to the actual building. The novelty of the quarantine was wearing thin on everyone, making street shows less popular, maybe. John grinned, seeing the mysterious creature he’d spent all night chatting with moving about in the shadows of the flat.

The grin faded just a bit as the music continued on. John wasn’t much of a classical music man, but today’s songs held a different energy or mood than usual. Sherlock paced as he played, but his typical sinuous, graceful were replaced by stilted, stiff steps. The essence of each song felt frenetic or maybe even manic, as though Sherlock was nervous while playing. 

The music stopped abruptly. 

It paused for a few moments, and Sherlock’s pacing had stopped. The tall shadow of him stood in the middle of the room and after a few moments of wild hand gestures, Sherlock shouted, “Fine!” 

The next song began. 

It was soothing and sweet, but it was missing something. That is, until a high soprano voice began singing along with it. Just as John was sure that Sherlock was playing along with a recording, the woman singing leaned against the window, framing her slender body. She wore only a pair of expensive-looking boxer shorts and a misbuttoned, very familiar purple shirt.

John’s pleasure at hearing Sherlock play faded. He zeroed in on the shirt, that same shirt that Sherlock had been wearing through their whole conversation the night before. 

Several instincts flitted through the army doctor’s mind. On one hand, he wanted to allow himself a proper sulk, thinking the typical ‘of course, there was no way in Hell someone like Sherlock would have seriously been interested in an old, tired soldier’, but that was stupid. Maybe he just wasn’t Sherlock’s type. Or maybe Sherlock just wanted a friend. John eyed the woman that was half-hanging out of the window. She looked like a model and sang like a damn angel. Maybe that was just Sherlock’s type.

John did feel a bit like a fool. 

She had to be the sheet-puller, then. He suddenly felt the intense urge to escape. 

His leg twitched painfully as he walked briskly away, not paying attention at all to the direction he was headed in. After a few streets, he was forced to lean against a wall to catch his breath. What was wrong? So Sherlock had a girlfriend. They could still… They could at least be friends, then? Didn’t John need more friends, as his, apparently, kept passing away?

Except, that if John were being honest with himself, he’d be forced to admit that he was already just a tiny bit in love with the man. 

No, no, as much as he was not a crime-solving genius, John was also not an idiot. Sherlock had either been interested in him or really good at shamming it for some unknown reason. Jealousy and annoyance at having been played a fool were not a great combination. By the time John felt alright to walk again, he realized he’d gone in the opposite direction from his own flat. He growled in frustration. 

“Tesco,” he muttered to himself, figuring he might as well not waste the trip. He did need a couple of things to get through the next week or two without having to stop. The idea of skipping Sherlock’s future performances was already floating around in his mind. Well, so what? They were supposed to be in a quarantine, after all. 

With too many people at the shops, desperate for an excuse to get out of the house, and the jealousy he’d already been feeling shifting into anger, John should have recognised he was too on-edge for a grocery store. 

The American who refused to wear a mask should have fucking known better, anyway.

***

“Well, I have to say, you gave it as good as you got it,” someone far away was saying. “Mate, get up. Hey.”

Someone was shoving at John’s shoes. “Oi! Wake up!” 

John groaned. “I don’t want to.” 

“Well, you’ve got to. Time to go home,” the man was saying. John pushed himself up onto his elbows to look at the guy who was talking to him. He vaguely remembered being put in the holding cell and his face felt swollen beyond belief. Through bleary eyes, he could make out a handsome silver-haired man in a decent enough suit grinning at him. Or, John assumed he was smiling. The mask he was wearing hid a bit of his face, but his eyes had a sarcastic, humorous edge. “You must be special for his Nibs to bail you out.” 

“I’m sorry?” John asked, brows knitting together. He blinked up at the guy. “Who?” 

“Sherlock,” the man- policeman, probably- was telling him. “He doesn’t call in favors for just anyone. Or are you not Doctor John Watson?” 

“No, no, of course, that’s me,” John groaned. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, wincing as his head throbbed. The policeman was chuckling at him. 

“Hurt a bit? You picked a fight with someone the size of a lorry. What is it? Small dog syndrome or something?” 

John tried his best to glare at the man, although he was fairly certain at least one of his eyes was too swollen shut to communicate the appropriate annoyance. “I’m a doctor, he wasn’t wearing a mask. I told him it was bad for his health. He should have listened.” And then, “I’m sorry, did you say Sherlock bailed me out?” 

“Yeah,” Silver Hair was saying. He led John out of the cell and started to walk him out. “He called in a few favors I’ve owed him to get you out of here. He says you’re imperative to his Work. I didn’t know he had friends, much less a colleague.” 

“I’m not- I erm, I don’t know what I am. I haven’t known him long,” John said, feeling awkward. He wondered how the Hell Sherlock even knew where he was. Silver Hair gave him a sympathetic smile and answered his thought, which he’d apparently spoken out loud without realizing it.

“I’ve found, when it comes to the Holmes brothers, it’s better not to ask too many questions about how they know stuff.” The policeman held out a hand for John to shake. “Lestrade.” 

“John,” the soldier-turned-apparent-street-brawler said. He almost shook Lestrade’s hand, but then thought about it for a second. “Probably shouldn’t. I just got arrested for fighting someone without a mask. A bit hypocritical of me to break social distancing guidelines now.” 

Lestrade snorted. When he spoke, that casual humor was still in his tone, but his eyes were serious. “Yeah, about that. Should I be worried about you doing this sort of thing often? I don’t owe Sherlock enough favors for this to be a regular arrangement.” 

“No, no. At least, I don’t think so,” John replied. He shrugged. “Although, I’m starting to think that you never really know what’s going to come next with Sherlock Holmes.” 

The silver-man snickered and then regarded John, taking him in with a thoughtful expression. “You know, maybe after all this is over, we could grab a pint sometime and I’ll tell you all about how right you really are.” 

John grinned, really smiled, and nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Not beta'd or Britpick'd, and for once this is a gift for me, not Mags. I work in a medical environment in the US so I've been under a lot of stress lately, so the medical aspects of this are based off what I've experienced and might not be true in other areas of the country or world.
> 
> \- Seriously, SO much stress. 
> 
> \- Inspired by a true story I read on Tumblr that I thought was beautiful, I'll try to link at the end. But also a smidge inspired by the Bubble date people.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on [My Blog](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)

**Author's Note:**

> [ Inspired by This Post. ](https://harrietvane.tumblr.com/post/61908934361835520) * It continues to not let me link to this freaking story??But I think at least this person's blog is coming up now?? So that's something??
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider reading my other works.


End file.
